


Orphan8: An Orphan Black Sense8 AU

by lifeorbeth



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Sense8 AU, sense8 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeorbeth/pseuds/lifeorbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we explore the lives of eight different clones, interconnected by something that runs even deeper than their shared biology or the surrounding conspiracy</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Working title and working summary.

Beth is poring over files. A professional hit on a local jeweler, potential mob connections: it's exactly the kind of case she likes. It's a delicate web of interconnected stories and alibies, where the evidence is few and far between and every little detail must be accounted for. Already she's found holes in two witness statements.  
There's a knock at the door. She checks her watch. It's late. She snatches her gun from where it had been hung in her holster, draped over the back of a chair. She checks the magazine on the way to the door; four rounds left. Her thumb is on the safety, ready to push and fire.  
She checks the window. A woman with a pixie cut, dyed a violent red, is standing on her doorstep, facing the street. She's shifting impatiently from foot to foot.  
Beth opens the door a crack. "Can I help you?"  
The woman turns. "You are Elizabeth Childs?" in accented English. Beth sees her own face staring back at her.

* * *

 

Rachel sighs into the phone. "Yes, I am aware." What isn't she aware of these days? Not much. She monitors the financials, she allocates resources to projects. She is Aldous's right-hand, and Marion's left (thus technically placing her above Aldous on both the company payroll and hierarchy). She leans back in her chair, draping her free hand over her knee, admiring the silver varnish.  
"If the monitoring and testing is proceeding as planned, forgive me if I don't see a reason for the experiment to continue. If our hypothesis was correct, surely there would be some signal of it by now. As it stands, we have failed. It's time to terminate, wouldn't you agree?"  
There's a long stretch of silence, seconds trickling like they've been left behind from the hours ahead. "You propose killing them?"  
"If they have no benefit to us…" Rachel leaves the latter half of her sentence for interpretation.  
The last word is a breath of almost childlike excitement: "Helsinki?"

* * *

 

Tony thumbs through the bills, double-checking, triple-checking the count. He gives Sammy the nod and they slip the duffel into the hollow where the van's spare tire should be. Once they get back to their apartment, they'll split the cash into four caches, keeping only a fraction on hand. They've learned. They know what they're doing.  
Tony chuckles and he and Sammy clasp hands. Another successful hit. And the night is still young. They abandon the getaway car in the garage and take the van to the street, heading home. Tony's blood is still singing with adrenaline.

* * *

 

Alison circles the electric toothbrush through her mouth again, making sure every nook and cranny is accounted for and plaque-free. She washes her face, slipping through her usual evening routine - one might even call it a ritual, but Alison doesn't. Donnie is already in bed, and when she lies down beside him, he instinctively wraps his hands around her middle. Alison resists the urge to squirm at the touch. She wonders how their marriage, once so full of understanding and love - at least, she thought so - could have become this. They're still so young. They have two beautiful children, Donnie has a well-paying and respectable job, they live in a wonderful neighborhood. What more could she want, really?  
She slips her mask down over her eyes, blocking out even the faint light from outside the window. She sighs as she sinks into their mattress, sinking just like she's sinking through everything else, sloughing through day after day. But it's worth it. For her kids. For her family. For her future. It's worth it.

* * *

 

Helena sits on the edge of her mattress, the photographs and knickknacks of Maggie's locker surrounding her. The closest to a home she's ever had. There's warmth here, despite the draft slipping under the big, metal door. There's a sense of purpose, which is more important than anything else. Maggie isn't here, but she left Helena with a box of cereal, a reward for her obedience. Better than Tomas's punishments.  
She smiles to herself, rocking back and forth, humming something tuneless - it doesn't matter. She snatches a handful of dry cereal, grinning at the little colored marshmallows mixed in, pressing them between her fingers. She glances often at her phone. Maggie promised to call her, promised that there would be a new assignment, something to do other than sit here.  
Maybe Maggie will take her for pancakes afterwards. Helena likes pancakes.  
She watches the phone screen, blacker than the night outside, one hand facilitating the devouring of Lucky Charms, the other trailing practiced fingers down a long, black, metal neck. The case for her disassembled rifle sitting open beside her, the motorcycle gassed up and ready to go a few feet away.  
She's buzzing.  _New assignment, new assignment._  She only needs the call.

* * *

 

The only sound in Cosima's apartment is the scratching of her pen against the paper. She's convinced that writing things down - actually writing them, on paper, with a pen - is better for her retention. And, seeing as it's her first semester here, she needs to make sure she starts out strong. She makes a mental checklist of all that she needs to accomplish: a lab report for Thursday, an exam on Friday, a dissertation progress check on Monday… As she ticks them off in her head, she realizes she's read a page without retaining anything. She starts back at the top and tries again.

* * *

 

Krystal is the last one out of the salon. She usually is. She takes her time, organizing her tools, humming to herself while she goes. She dons her black coat, frowning over the onset of autumn's chill - how can it already be October? - and pulls out her keys to lock up behind her. She tugs on the door to check it, and sets off towards her car in the lot two blocks over.  
She debates whether or not to go for drinks. Nothing like a cosmo to lighten the load after a long day at work, right? She turns in to the first bar she sees. Bobby's. The cute, blonde bartender and owner, Bobby, greets her with a smile when she takes her seat.  
"What'll it be?" Bobby asks, leaning with her forearms against the bar between them.  
"Just a cosmo," Krystal replies, already opening her purse, digging for her compact. "You look lovely, by the way."  
Bobby smiles again, in that taken-aback sort of way that generally accompanies an unexpected compliment. Krystal tends to have that effect on people, which is so strange since, after all, Bobby is quite pretty and must surely receive compliments pretty regularly.  
As Bobby mixes Krystal's drink, Krystal makes small talk. Asks about the bartender's day, what product she uses in her hair (seriously, it's so casually voluminous, curly, in a way that Krystal can never manage), all for the sake of casual conversation. When Krystal pulls out a handful of bills to pay for the drink, Bobby waves it away.  
"On the house," she replies before moving off to help two men on the other end of the bar.

* * *

 

Sarah takes another drink. What else is there to do, really, besides take another bloody drink? The others in the room are mostly high, stumbling over each other, their laughter filling the space almost as effectively as the bluish smoke from the ends of their joints or the whiter smoke from cigarettes. Sarah has begun to realize just how little she wants to be there, with their laughter skirting along beside her, surrounding her like a bubble of pseudo-joy that she can't even pretend to feel anymore.  
The only vice she has left to her is alcohol. The drugs don't feel the same and… part of her just doesn't want them, turns her nose up at the high she used to chase. At the expense of those closest to her, of course. Because she's never been reliable. She slaps her glass back down on the table and slips out into the night. She doesn't bother to say goodbye; nobody would really notice her absence anyway.  
The streets are cool, the final cling of summer pushed away, lost to the autumn fog which swirls around her ankles and dances in the beams of streetlights. She starts the long trek with her hands balled into fists in her pockets, her boots thumping against the sidewalk, a comforting sound in the heavy silence.  
She passes a payphone. Can't help letting her gaze linger on it as she continues. How hard would it be to make one simple phone call? Her fingers brush against the handful of quarters she has in her pocket. It can't be that hard. To admit that she was wrong, to apologize for making yet another stupid, stupid mistake.  
At the next payphone, she stops. She picks up the receiver. Dial tone. She inserts a quarter and dials. She holds the phone to her ear gingerly, like it might rear out and bite. How stupid, to be afraid of a phone call. But then:  _Leave it for Felix._  Voicemail.  
She slams the phone back down onto the receiver.


	2. Chapter 2

Helena's fingers brush the bottom of the bag, coming out coated in sugary residue and cereal crumbs. She licks the sugar off, giggling to herself. How silly, to be sucking on her fingers. Her eyes flick to her phone but then find the bottom of the cereal box again. She roots around for that last little green marshmallow she just knows is in there. When she finds it, her face lights up. She tries to savor it, but it tastes too good.

Without her snack to occupy her, Helena wanders. She trails her fingers over the desks and tables, thumbing through photographs absently. She's not expecting to find anything; she knows it all already. She does see, however, the remnants of old Barbies.

 _This one was called Aryanna,_  she thinks, lifting one in a blue dress. It's headless, of course, but she always liked the dress. Aryanna had such pretty dresses. Helena isn't sure if she'd like wearing dresses like those, but they looked good on Aryanna. The copy, the demon.

 _Danielle_ , she thinks, dipping her fingers into a pile of little brown hairs. Helena had liked Danielle's hair. She wanted her own hair to look like that, but hers came out messy. Look like a copy? Stupid, stupid - they should want to look like  _her_. They should want to  _be_ her, to be real.

But they can't want anymore. They're dead.

* * *

 

Beth's gun slips lower, but she keeps the door as close to closed as possible, wedging her body between the door and its frame. "Who are you?"

The woman - her twin or something, she must be - cranes her neck, trying to see around Beth, to see inside. She doesn't answer the question. "Is anyone home?"

Beth, still stunned, replies, "Just my boyfriend - "

"Please, we need to talk." Beth finally places the accent: German.

"Who are you?"

"Not here." The woman glances over her own shoulder. There's a black Audi parked a short distance away. "Please, Elizabeth - "

"Beth," Beth interrupts absently.

"Come with me," the woman insists. "This is important."

Beth steps back from the door, hesitating, letting it hang open between them. The gun in her hand is clearly visible. Is it meant to be a threat, a warning? She doesn't know herself. After a long moment, she nods. "Let me just grab my coat." She also slips her holster on underneath. Something about this doesn't feel right.

* * *

 

Tony sinks back on the couch at his place. He's had a shower, a couple of beers, and he can't wipe the stupid grin off his face. It's always this way after a hit. He wonders if he'll ever get over the thrill of it. That flip of a switch between the scariest moment of his life (it could all come crashing down: one wrong move, and that's it) and the elation of being a rich man - at least until the money disappears into the offshore accounts for safekeeping.

He sets down his most recent conquered beer (now empty) and pulls out his kit. Needles upon needles. He sighs. He wishes there would come a day when he wouldn't need so many damn needles just to be himself.

But that's what the money's for. Or, at least, that's what he does with his cut. Surgery and meds. He'd do it all again. It's worth it for every drop of Big T in his bloodstream.

He slips the point into the meat of his thigh and presses the plunger, sinking back just a bit before plucking the syringe free. He sits there in that moment, as if he could feel the androgens swirling through his system, bolstering his identity, his sense of self. Until Sammy comes by with yet another beer and claps him on the shoulder.

"This is it, man," Sammy cheers. "Just one more and we're home free. Off to the Cayman's or wherever. Outta this shit-hole at the very least, am I right?"

"Damn right we are," Tony grunts his assent, snapping the cap on his beer free with the bottle opener on the table, handing it off to Sammy. "Screw everything about this place. I'm ready. Caribbean, here we come."

"I'll drink to that," Sammy grins, and their bottles clink together, a toast, of sorts.

* * *

 

In the passenger seat of the Audi - and Beth must admit, it's a hell of a nice car - Beth fights to not appear small. Though she does keep her left arm tighter to her chest than she might normally. The protrusion of her pistol under her arm is somewhat of a comfort.

"You gonna answer my questions, or what, evil twin?"

"It's Katja. And we're not twins," the woman answers curtly, turning off the main drag.

Beth sits up, watching as the roads get darker, the streetlights increasingly few and far between. She lets her gaze flicker back and forth between the outside and the inside, eyeing Katja through her periphery.

"Then what are we?"

The car pulls into a dark stretch of road. The engine clicks off, leaving them in a heavy silence. Katja, not-twin, whatever she is, turns her whole body in the seat, facing Beth and making sure not to look away. "We're clones. Not sisters, clones."

"Bullshit," Beth counters instinctively. "That is complete and utter bullshit. Where's your proof?" Beth waves a hand between them. "I'll grant you this: we're identical. Twins, separated at birth; it happens all the time."

When Katja reaches towards the backseat, Beth's hand is on her gun. It's already unclipped from the holster and half-drawn (waiting for an excuse to test her trigger finger) when Katja faces forwards again, a laptop in hand. She opens it, signs in.

"Sign into Interpol," she commands. "You're police; I know you have access." When Beth pulls her hand free of her jacket to take the laptop, Katja continues speaking. "There's a photo on the desktop you can use to run facial recognition."

Beth opens the photo. It's of Katja on a beach somewhere, grinning, arms wrapped around someone who's been cut from the picture. The face is all she needs, but Beth tucks that little tidbit of information away. She does as she's instructed, and soon the computer is running matches, bouncing off the Interpol database.

Katja's hands grip the steering wheel, rolling outwards from the wrist. Beth often does the same thing when she's frustrated. She directs her attention back to the screen.  _Please be a simple explanation._

* * *

 

Helena dives for her phone. A text from Maggie.  _Not tonight._  

Helena feels herself deflate. No purpose, no mission, no assignment. Just old, broken dolls that have been played with and tossed aside. Or, at least, left on display in their various states of disarray. An arm missing here, a head there, burnt or scratched or dirty. Perhaps Maggie will give her a new doll.

Another text message.  _Soon._

* * *

 

Sammy nodded off not long after they started drinking. As big as he is, the guy can't handle his beer. Puts him right to sleep. But Tony takes this silence. Takes it like he takes his cigarettes on the balcony, overlooking the grim city that he hates, lights periodically blinking off throughout.

What's in Ohio but corn and Cleveland?

 _Tony motherfucking Sawicki, that's what,_  he chants to himself. But not for long.

He takes a long drag, like he's breathing in every nasty, terrible, nicotine-infested corner of this city, only to exhale it in the form of dissipating smoke. He flicks the cigarette butt out into the night, watching as the orange glow winks out when it hits the ground two floors down.

He wonders what it'll be like: retired and living large at only twenty-eight. Lying on the beach all day, whenever he wants. Finally getting a tan. It's like there's no sunshine here. And maybe there isn't. But maybe he just never sees it.

* * *

 

A hit, perfect match. Beth eyes the name. Katja Obinger, Berlin. She starts scanning the other information when another hit blinks up on the screen. Danielle Fournier. And then another. Janika Ziegler. Suddenly the results are piling up. Birth dates all in March or April, 1984. And then… death dates. Six dead on the same date in 2006 - all in Finland. Three more dead since, scattered through Europe.

She looks up at Katja, and she can tell by the woman's tight lips that her fear must be written clearly on her face. "Do you believe me now, Beth?"

"What's - ?"

"Someone is killing us."


	3. Chapter 3

It isn't long before Alison wakes up. She doesn't even bother pretending that it's morning. She always wakes up between one and three in the morning these days. Some might call it "Momsomnia," but that is such a silly term.

Still, she plays the role of respectable mother. She slides out of bed, shedding her eye mask and leaving it on the nightstand. She tiptoes through the house, a wraith in pink-checked pajamas, drifting from the master bedroom to Oscar's and then Gemma's. She peeks in the doors, both sleeping soundly, before retreating again. Not quite ready to fight her way back to sleep just yet, Alison seeks solace downstairs in the kitchen.

From the wine cooler: a bottle of chardonnay. From the cabinet to the right of the oven: wine glass.

Alison takes a seat at the dining room table, not even bothering to turn on the light. The streetlight outside the window is plenty bright enough. She sits in the dark, drinking alone.

* * *

 

"Holy shit," Beth breathes, leaning back from the laptop screen as if physical distance could change the validity of the information in front of her. She looks to Katja and asks what she considers the next logical question: "How many of us are there?"

Katja grips the steering wheel again. "I don't know." She looks back over at Beth. "But look at those files; we're being…" she searches for the word, "eradicated."

Beth snorts at the word, even though nothing about the situation is funny. "Eradicated. Like we're an experiment?"

Katja's silence is telling. "We could be," she replies after a long moment. "How else could you explain clones?" Katja shakes her head. "We need to find the rest; if you're here, there must be more in North America."

Beth turns back to the database, looking at dates and locations. "All the murders are in Europe; do you really think it'll spread here?"

"It already has."

* * *

 

Cosima stands up quickly. She'd been dozing over her notes. Again. It's time for a coffee break. She doesn't even really want coffee - she just needs to move - but the only place worth going to at this hour is the Starbucks down the street. She shoulders into her red coat and tucks herself into a scarf (one that's actually warm this time - she's not used to this Minnesota weather; it's below fifty degrees and people still aren't wearing coats?) before setting out.

Her heels clop on the sidewalk. Can't sacrifice the shoes, even if she does choose a sensible scarf over a fashionable one. There's no snow yet, so the shoes are definitely staying. The coffee place (and being from Berkeley, it pains her to even  _consider_ Starbucks a real coffee place) is comfortably close to empty. There are three patrons scattered in the dark-paneled room, each illuminated by laptop screens and shielded by earbuds. It's a little too early for the rush of panicked students with papers due by tomorrow.

She orders a dirty chai. Just the thought of espresso makes her feel immediately better, even though the tea will mask the taste. She needs the caffeine, even if she isn't really looking for that strong coffee taste. Starbucks burns their espresso anyway.

Venti dirty chai in hand, she treks back to her apartment. She passes a handful of tipsy undergrads (one of whom almost upends her beverage) but manages to come away unscathed and spill-free.

Chai cooling beside her, she sets back to work on the note-taking.

* * *

 

Katja's head jerks slightly. Beth notes the direction of her gaze and leans forward in her seat, looking out towards the dark street. Her hand is on her gun again.

"What is it?" Beth asks, cursing the flickering streetlight for limiting her line of sight.

Katja whispers something in her native tongue and Beth curses her past self for taking French instead of German in college. She quickly undoes her seatbelt and signs out of Interpol. She has to cover the bases, just in case. She stows the computer back on the backseat and tries to get more information.

"Katja," when Katja doesn't respond, she tries again. "Katja, talk to me. What do you see? Who's out there?"

"No one," she breathes, sinking back in her seat, heaving a cough into her fist. She spits something that sounds like a curse then shakes her head. "Not yet, but, I promise, they'll be coming soon."

* * *

 

Helena's phone chirps, and she dives for it. She hates to admit that she hadn't been ready for the assignment tonight. She'll punish herself for it later. But right now she has a name. Another text comes in.

_Wait._

Helena heaves a sigh and settles back on her mattress. Wait? Why wait? There is a name, and a location should not be difficult to find. But Helena obeys. Helena is a good girl. Helena does what she's told.

* * *

 

Alison was on her third glass. That's what she remembers. But when she sits upright, she realizes that she fell asleep on her arm at the table.  _Stupid_ , she chides, replacing the cork in the bottle and cleaning up after herself. Funny that she can only sleep when she's had a bit to drink.

 _Not funny,_  she corrects.  _Sad_. It's Sad with a capital S that she needs wine to sleep.

She checks on her kids again on her way back to bed. Both still sleeping soundly. So it's just her who, for whatever reason, cannot seem to sleep in her own house.

Donnie is snoring quite contentedly and Alison sighs as she climbs up beside him. She gives him a nudge and he rolls onto his side, falling silent. At least that's a plus.

* * *

 

"Are we just going to… wait for them?" Beth asks, unloading the magazine again, as if more bullets might have appeared since she left the house.  
Katja looks over at her. "The person coming to see us won't be expecting one thing: you've got a gun."

Beth recoils. "I'm not just gonna kill an innocent -"

"You think she's innocent?" Katja interrupts. "She sold out my sisters to their murderer."

"You know who the killer is?"

"No," Katja replies, undoing her own seatbelt and stepping out into the autumn chill. "But I'm going to find out."

Beth clambers out after her, whispering sharply, "Are you crazy?"

"I'm done running. I've been running ever since Aryanna was killed; that's when we knew. It worked… for a time. But they cut us down all the same; we could not hide." Katja shakes her head, facing away from Beth, looking out into the night. "No more. I will have answers."

* * *

 

Cosima muffles a yawn with her hand. She should be used to Sunday nights spent like this. That late-night scramble before the due-dates. It's something so intimately familiar. And yet, every new semester, she finds herself stumbling long before she finds that rhythm. She downs the last of her now-cold tea latte in one strained gulp. It never tastes good after it cools.

She should stop wasting her money on larges.

She turns to her laptop for a distraction. Her new favorite pastime: looking for jobs. Okay, maybe it's not a favorite, but it's definitely a staple. Researching corporations that have specialty positions for evolutionary developmental biology experts, reaching out, sending emails. Networking.

One particular company keeps coming up in every search. The DYAD Institute. Interesting name, considering dyadic atoms and vectors aren't particularly commonplace. Though they are common enough that she's heard of them. But DYAD, the company, has their hands in all sorts of cutting-edge research all across the world.

She drafts an email to the hiring director and also stumbles upon another name: Aldous Leekie. Something about his name sounds familiar… She Googles him. TED Talk. That would explain it. She glances at the title of the video - Neolution: Self-Directed Evolution - and closes the window. She hopes his company is a bit less worthy of a raised eyebrow than he is.

* * *

 

"No more running, Miss Obinger?"

The voice comes from the alley behind Beth, which was not where she'd been expecting. Rookie mistake. She takes in the figure materializing from the darkness ( _Materializing? This isn't a noir film, dipshit_ ). She paints a picture of the woman in her mind, trying to account for every detail in case Beth needs to identify her later. Either for facial recognition scans or picking her out of a police lineup. It's standard procedure. She needs to know everything.

This new woman is rather tall (taller than she is, at least), Asian, thin, mid-forties, dressed in black. She cocks her head when she catches sight of the pair of them. "Oh," she says, her face breaking into a smile. "There are more of you. Good. Not in your circle, I see."

Beth keeps her eyes on the new woman, the threat, though she can't make out the presence of a weapon. Why the hell did this climactic rendezvous have to take place in the middle of the goddamn night?

"Not in any  _cluster_ ," Katja replies, stepping up beside Beth, too close for Beth's comfort. She could be in the way of a firefight - if it comes to that. "And I'm going to keep it that way."

"Deny them the sisterhood you fought so hard for?" the woman tuts pityingly. "Selfish, selfish. She'll find them anyway. You know that, don't you?"

 _She?_  Beth thinks, knowing better than to insert herself into the conversation.

"Your killer is a woman?"

The woman smiles. It doesn't look malicious or even angry. It's actually quite nice. It's a lovely, full-face smile. A laughing smile. The kind of smile that killers shouldn't have; the kind they don't have in all the stories and the movies. Killers are cold, calculated, broken. They shouldn't be able to smile. And yet, this woman does. Beautifully.

"My killer," she laughs. "She's very special to me. Much more than just some assassin. Do you want to meet her?" And the woman reaches into her pocket.

Beth doesn't think.

* * *

 

Two shots. Cosima looks up, goes to the window. Those were gunshots, right? They sounded like gunshots. She cranes her neck, looking up and down the dark street below. No one seems to be around. Those sounded really close. Like, within a block close.

She checks the campus livestream. No one has said anything about gunshots. She hasn't gotten a campus security email, nothing from the university police. There are absolutely no reports of any violent or suspicious activity anywhere.  
Maybe she should call it a night…

She closes the blinds and abandons her paper-cluttered desk, the cold, empty Starbucks cup standing tall like a watchtower. She drops her glasses on the nightstand and falls back on her bed, draping a hand across her eyes. Despite the espresso (it was only one shot, after all), Cosima has absolutely no trouble slipping off to sleep.

* * *

 

Alison jerks awake, alarm bells going off in her head. A shooting? In her neighborhood? She throws her mask aside and dashes down the hall, throwing open Oscar's door. Oscar, a characteristically light sleeper, is still fast asleep. Alison waits for the phone to ring, waits for Aynsley Norris to come scurrying across the street with the gossip.

But there's nothing.

She's going crazy.

* * *

 

Helena leaps to her feet, pulling a handgun from the pocket of her coat on the floor beside her. She goes to the door, drags it open, looks out amidst the other lockers, shut tight, keeping people's valuables out of sight and out of mind. She takes a few cautious steps out away from the maze of identical doors, listening.

There are no footsteps, hurried or otherwise. There is only the sound of her breathing and her feet on the gravel. She stops, concentrating. She slips back into the locker and drags the door shut behind her.

Her phone shows a notification: one missed call. From Maggie. But her phone never rang.


	4. Chapter 4

Krystal leans across the bar a smidge, catches Bobby's hand and looks over her nails. "Stop by the salon sometime - you know, the one just around the corner - I'll set you up with a really nice mani-pedi. There's nothing better than a good mani-pedi," she concludes with a conspiratorial smile and a little wink.  
Bobby gives a gruff laugh and retracts her hand, "Manicures aren't really in my budget…"  
"Don't worry about it," Krystal shrugs, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. "You deserve it: hard-working woman like you."  
"I really - "  
"Just stop in whenever; I'm pretty much always there. Tell Sharon you've got an appointment with me."  
Finally Bobby nods, a quick, tight smile, and, looking down, she mutters, "Thanks."  
"You  _deserve_ it," Krystal stresses.  
"Hey!" A man calls hoarsely (drunkenly) from the end of the bar, "I'm waiting for service here!"  
Bobby rolls her eyes and gives Krystal a telling look before wandering away. Krystal stares after her for a moment. What a thankless job… She pulls a handful of bills from her purse and sets them underneath her empty glass before peeling away from the bar and out into the night.  
Time to go home.

* * *

 

With Katja gone (at Beth's insistence, of course), Beth is left in the aftermath of her own actions. The woman (Maggie Chen, according to Katja) lying dead a few feet away. Beth panics. She panics the way she never thought she would panic.

 _Call it in,_  she tells herself.  _Call it in, call it in, call it in._   _Report it. Lie. Do something._  But she's frozen. Her hands are shaking, and she staggers into the alley and throws up. She's shot people before, but always to disarm, never to kill. She's never listened to someone's blood-soaked final breaths.  
Because, of course, Maggie didn't die right away. She gurgled and shook for an impossibly long moment. Until finally, her eyes slipped closed and her chest stilled. But the blackened blood still seeped out onto the pavement.  
Her fingers stumble against her phone screen, and she speed-dials 2 instead of 1.

* * *

 

Sarah feels a wave of nausea in her gut. The kind of sick a kid who's getting drunk for the first time feels. That insatiable need to vomit. Sarah ducks over behind some bushes and heaves. But there's nothing in her stomach. She's stone-cold sober, and she hasn't eaten anything for a while. And she's not…  
No, definitely not that.  
She must be coming down with something. Didn't Shirley have a bug last week, or something? There's gotta be an explanation for it - a reasonable one.  
She spits, trying to get that hot, sour bile taste from her mouth, and straightens. The nausea doesn't rear its ugly head again, doesn't break her. It was just… a freak incident. It's not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to her. At least, she doesn't think it is.  
She moves back to the sidewalk and resumes her trek ho - to Vic's. She can't think of that shithole apartment as home. It never could be. But it's at least where the kettle is, and what she needs now more than anything is a cup of tea.

* * *

 

"Beth?" Art's voice comes scratchy and low and slow through the phone. "What is it? What's wrong?"  
"Shit," Beth hisses. She called Art by accident.  _Shit, shit, shit._  "I, uh, I'm sorry, Art. I meant to… well, I…" She's stumbling over her words. Her brain is muddled, spinning her thoughts in confusing whirlwind circles.  
"Hey, I'm here, Beth. Slow down," he says, voice becoming clearer, focused. "Tell me what happened."  
"I was working on the Ramsey thing, casing the scene," she says, realizing that, yes, Sun Jewelry is right around the corner. She knows exactly where she is. It's too convenient. Too easy a lie. She suddenly feels the need to vomit again.  
"Whoa, Beth, hey," Art starts frantically trying to catch her attention, get a response. "Where are you?"  
Beth straightens, grimacing around the sour taste in her mouth. "I'm sorry, Art. Sorry, I… I don't know what's -"  
"Where are you?" he asks again.  
She tells him the closest intersection. "I… I don't know what to do." She didn't realize she was crying. She hadn't been this bad when Katja was still here. At least, she hopes she hadn't.  
"Just breathe, Beth," Art says, and Beth can hear a rustle of fabric and the clatter of keys. "I'm on my way to you, okay? Just wait there."

* * *

 

Sarah drops her last tea bag in the one chipped mug Vic owns, thinking how much of a sign it is. The kettle rumbles as the water heats up, and she leans against the counter, looking out over the very small apartment. Cramped, not cozy. She wishes she lived in a world where cozy was a word used to describe too-small living spaces. But cozy is like home: not in her vocabulary.  
When she finally drops the last of the milk over her tea, she watches it diffuse. Watches the billowing cream-colored cloud rise from the bottom and mix slowly, lapping over the floating tea bag like a restless ocean. When she finally removes the bag, she realizes her hands are shaking.  
What's going on with her today?

* * *

 

Krystal checks the door to her apartment, her heels clacking against the hardwood in the hallway. It's locked. She digs her keys from her purse and unlocks it. The foyer is dark. "Hector?" she calls, stepping inside. "Baby? Are you home?"  
There's no answer.  
She checks her cell. No texts, no voicemail.  
Well, they do have an open relationship. Maybe he saw a hot girl, thought he'd try something a little different. He'd been increasingly… distant lately. But she's not worried.  
Krystal's the kind of girl who doesn't go very long without a man. That's not to say she's being cocky about it, she really isn't, but… there's always a man in her life. It's been that way for years. Is that weird? She's not a fling kind of girl. Well, she is, but she isn't. She likes relationships; she likes having someone to come home to. At least, when he's here.  
Usually he at least calls if he's going to be out late…  
She sends him a text:  _where r u?_

* * *

 

The siren is off, but the lights are flashing - redblueredbluered - when Art pulls up in the gray cruiser. Beth has her hands covering her face, she's sitting against the wall of the building adjacent to the alley. Maggie's body is just out of sight from where she is. So when she looks up, she doesn't have to see what she's done.  
Art's gaze cases the scene. He obviously catches sight of Maggie there, but he goes to Beth first. He crouches down in front of her, large, gentle hands on her shoulders. "Hey, you're alright…" it's not a question, it's a croon, a statement. Maybe not 'you're alright right now' but more like 'you will be alright and I'm here to make sure that's true.' And there aren't enough words in the English language to express how grateful she is at that moment.  
Her eyes are finally dry, though her spine and everything that stems from it (okay, her whole body) are shaking. She can't stop. She's not cold, but she is. It's something deeper than the chill in the air. It's a coldness stemming from her center. A realization: she's a murderer.  
"You've gotta call this in, Beth," Art says after a long moment of silence. Beth realizes she still hasn't acknowledged him.  
"I… I meant to. I… I called you by mistake." She pauses, a glitch in her already wavering speech. "I'm glad you're here."  
"I gotcha," he says, pulling her upright by the elbows, and catching her when she stumbles. "I gotcha…" he repeats.  
"I know," she whispers.  
"What happened, Beth?" he finally asks, and Beth takes a staggering step back, though Art is still gripping her elbows. Support, not restraint.  
Beth takes in a preparatory breath. And so the lies begin. "I thought I saw Yip."  
"Xan Yip? From the Sun Jewelry Heist? At one in the morning?" He shakes his head. "What were you doing out here? Where's your car?"  
Shit. "I walked. Couldn't sleep…" She shakes her head, running a hand through her hair again. "I had the case on my mind, I guess. I've been… out for a while."  
"You're miles from home; you must be freezing." He pulls her into the cruiser and cranks on the heat. Maybe she was cold.  
"I ended up here; I wasn't trying to… It just… happened, I guess. But I saw Yip, I swear I did. And she saw me, too, took off running. I… chased her here," she gestures at the alley, not looking up from the dashboard. "It was dark, I called after her to stop. She reached into her pocket and I…"  
"You thought it was a weapon, you thought she was going to hurt you."  
"It was just her phone…" Beth shakes her head. "And it wasn't even Yip. Just some… innocent woman."  
"You've gotta call this in, Beth. I'll help you, okay? We'll get through this." He takes her hand and gives a firm, reassuring squeeze.

* * *

 

Sarah sips her tea, trying to still the shaking in her hands, trying to - what? - convince herself that nothing's wrong? Maybe she's finally realizing just how wrong everything is. She's tired, she's angry (more at herself than anything else) and, worse, she's stupid. So. Fucking. Stupid.  
The last of the tea is gone. She throws the already broken mug at the wall. Hurls it. It doesn't feel like rage, but it is. She can't do this anymore. She can't. She needs to leave.  
She doesn't want the high. She doesn't want the adventures and the parties. She wants to grow roots, to forge a life for herself, to set an example and be someone worth admiring. She wants to get it right. Finally.  
She starts shoving clothes into her bag when the door opens.  
"Sarah," Vic greets her in that almost magnanimous way he has, arms spread wide, voice too loud. He's drunk, and he's almost definitely high on something. At least, he had been when she'd left him behind at the party. "Where've you been? No one saw you leave!"  
Sarah shrugs. "Just… wanted to be alone, I guess."  
He tries to grip her arms but ends up stumbling, all but crashing into her. The result: his hands grip. Hard. She jerks free, shoving him off.  
"Jesus, Sarah, what's your problem?" he whines, not quite slurring, but still unsteady on his feet.  
Sarah shakes her head. "I'm done, Vic. This is it. I'm done."

* * *

 

Beth's heart is hammering again, suddenly. She hadn't been nervous anymore; she'd been feeling drained. And then. Her blood is singing with adrenaline, but no one is here yet there is no one to convince or lie to or falter in front of.  
She hears a crack like a gunshot and jumps, her gaze searching the blackness outside of the cruiser with a tangible desperation.  
"Hey, Beth, relax. I know you're jumpy but… it happens. Alright? It'll be alright."  
He didn't hear it.

* * *

 

When Vic drops - hard - Sarah freezes, the ashtray suddenly feeling so much heavier in her hand. Until it slips from between her fingers and thunks against the floor next to Vic's head. This is it, there's no turning back; she shoves the coke into her bag, one last "fuck you," and slams the door behind her. She almost hopes it'd be loud enough to wake him. But it isn't and she gets away.

She's finally going home.


End file.
